


Setting the Board

by theparadoxicalfox



Series: Royal Flush [11]
Category: Banana Bus Squad, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Death of minor character, Gun Violence, Mention of Death, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadoxicalfox/pseuds/theparadoxicalfox
Summary: Still coming to terms with the loss of his whole crew, Vanoss is adjusting to his new teammates. During an assignment he sees a familiar face—a face that belongs to a deadman—and has to make a decision that could effect many lives.





	Setting the Board

_ February 3, 1924 _

The snow fell thick and heavy, stinging his hands and the bare skin around his mask. He could hardly see; he couldn’t hear a thing. The whole world was muffled and blank.

He drew in a breath, and the sudden noise was nearly painful. It sounded alien in this otherwise bleak place: a sign of life that didn’t belong. He didn’t belong. Not here; not anywhere.

A sudden, massive explosion sent tremors through the air, and there was then more colour than white against black—reds and oranges and the brightest of burning yellows spread out before him, rushing towards him-

The world was now full of sound. The snow hissed furiously as it was burned away, sending steam into an endless black sky. The fire roared, its sound alone an oppressive force.

And the heat, it stole his breath away. It choked him and strangled him until he could no longer draw in that breath, no longer shout for them to run with him-

There they were, stepping out of the blaze. Figures on fire. Masks cracking in the heat. Blood drying fast on their clothes. Behind them, glowing ember eyes of hounds, stalking ever closer, their burning pelts blurring outlines.

He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t warn them. All he could do was form their names on his tongue, and watch, helpless, as the fiery hounds bounded forward with howls like the roar of the blaze and their teeth glinting like molten metal.

His shout burned his throat; his tears stung his eyes and dried under his mask. Their bodies were dark and limp and burning to char.

He could never save them. He  _ always  _ failed them.

Dropping to his knees, he stared up at the inferno, up at the burning eyes of the wolf as it formed from the flames. He closed his eyes as its giant maw swept towards him, tossed him into the air.

He fell through the smoke and the ash, into the burning jaws-

Then, with the the distinct thump of a body hitting the floor, Vanoss found himself lying next to his bed, shaking and sweaty in a mess of sheets.

There was a groan from across the small bedroom, and a pillow came flying out of the darkness to slap him in the face. He bit back a scream, still fighting to control his heartbeat, his breathing—still fighting against the sheets that had wrapped around his legs and torso, all too effectively trapping him.

The wooden floor creaked softly, then a small lamp on one of the desks flicked on.

“Dammit, Vanoss, you know how early it is,” Chilled said under his breath, crouching down next to him and tugging at the sheets.

Vanoss could only stare at the ceiling, his hands on his chest as he counted out each breath. He would  _ not _ go into a panic this time, not again.

“You were screaming again,” Chilled continued, “Surprised all our neighbours haven’t come knocking. Sounded like we were murdering you.”

“Gimm’my pillow,” Bryce spoke up, his eyes still closed as his hand waved towards them. Chilled snorted, and tossed it onto Bryce’s bed. In a matter of seconds he was snoring lightly.

Vanoss remained in a daze of some sort, aware of what was going around him, but not feeling too terribly interested in doing anything about it. Chilled was doing plenty, anyway: he’d unwrapped the sheets from around him, and smoothed them out on Vanoss’ bed; he’d disappeared for what could have been a second—or maybe it was an hour—and returned with a glass of water; and, when Vanoss was still too shaky to lift himself onto his bed, Chilled settled down beside him after draping a blanket over his shoulders.

It was probably a few minutes later when Vanoss finally spoke.

“Why are you doing this?” His voice, mostly free of inflection, broke on the last word. “I’m not worth- I don’t… None of you have gotten a decent night’s sleep since you had to take me, since I was transferred into your team. Why…?”

Chilled stared at Vanoss, then looked down at his hands. He shrugged.

“I’m moving out soon. An apartment finally cleared up for me and Jessica, so we’ll be moving in together, and I guess you’ll be stuck with Bryce now, and we all know he sleeps through everything, so… I figured you could use someone here for you, while, y’know. There’s still someone here for you.”

Vanoss closed his eyes. Here for him? He hadn’t really had someone  _ there for him _ since… since Christmas. When the people he’d depended on, and the people who depended on  _ him _ , all died. He was alone now.

“Thank you.”

Chilled nodded, and gripped Vanoss’ shoulder in a gesture that was probably supposed to be comforting. Then he stood, and gestured to the bed.

“You’d better get back to sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day, and we can’t have you mess up a shot that might save our asses.”

Vanoss grunted, and hefted himself up onto the edge of the mattress. As Chilled took the blanket from him and spread it back over his sheets, Vanoss slipped under the covers.

“Good night,” Chilled murmured, switching off the lamp.

Vanoss didn’t reply. His eyes strained in the darkness as he pretended, just for this moment, that the form under the covers across the room was Del, or Toonz, or Ohm, and not Bryce.

\-----

It was bitterly cold outside. The wind bit at every inch of exposed skin, and caught any loose piece of fabric, sending it fluttering like the wings of a wounded bird.

Vanoss tugged at the brim of his cap, incredibly thankful he’d remembered a scarf, then shifted on his elbows to peer down the ladder sight.

Bryce and Chilled were already on their way to their target’s office, Bryce posing as a wealthy ( _ very _ wealthy) and… potentially generous son looking for discreet care for an ailing father. Chilled was the bodyguard, and looked the part.

Moo was waiting in the foyer, perfectly within sight of the staircase and elevator, the entrance, and the door of the hospital security’s office. He’d keep the exit clear, and serve as close-by backup.

And Vanoss: he was lying prone on the roof of a neighbouring hospital building, with direct line of sight into the office and foyer. He was ready to drill anyone unfortunate enough to think they could stop a team of Faceless from carrying out their task.

They didn’t know much about their target. He wasn’t quite elderly, was certainly quite rich, and had a lot of connections someone in his profession really shouldn’t. He was the one the  _ russkaya mafiya _ dealt with when it came to strictly off the books medical care. He was the one the upper class went to when they wanted something: for the right price, the best physicians and surgeons in the country would suddenly be available, or a rich and elderly relative who had fallen ill would sadly pass away.

Someone was paying three large to get this guy knocked off, and the Faceless higher-ups were only too happy to inconvenience the mafiya _. _

Vanoss’ gaze was drawn to a flicker of movement in the office. The target was at the door, waving Bryce and Chilled in, gesturing to the plush seats in front of the desk.

Chilled remained standing, and positioned himself behind Bryce with arms crossed.

Vanoss smiled softly. He was sure Chilled enjoyed the bodyguard role, if only because it meant he didn’t have to talk very much. It had taken Vanoss a month to figure out Chilled didn’t actually hate him; he was just rather shy. Quiet. A classic introvert.

He dipped the rifle down, peering along its sight to watch Moo. The two in the office would settle there, read the situation for a few minutes, before they went ahead with the plan.

Vanoss didn’t take much notice of the Roamer pulling up near the entrance, nor did he think much of it when a huge bear of a man stepped out of the driver’s seat, joined shortly by a second, even taller and more muscular man.

But the moment Mir, the King himself, stepped out of the automobile, Vanoss’ gaze was drawn to the scene unfolding below.

One of Mir’s bodyguards reached into the car, and withdrew a moment later hefting a form wrapped in bandages. Two more men exited behind him, and the group began to make its way to the entrance.

Vanoss drew in a breath. Mir was right there. He was  _ in his sights _ . All it would take was the pull of his trigger-

That’s when Vanoss saw the face of the bandaged figure.

It was Mark Fischbach.

His gaze darted to the foyer, where Moo was gazing at the staircase; then up to the office, where Chilled still stood and Bryce still talked.

He had to stop this. He had to call off the mission.

Could he even do that? Would he have the time? Their target’s clock was running out, and Mir and his men would be knocking at the office door far too soon for Vanoss’ liking. He would love to put a bullet in each of the Russians’ brains, and two in Mir’s for good measure, then congratulate the rest of the team for a job well done—but Fischbach looked in terrible shape.

Which was only to be expected, seeing as how the man was supposed to be  _ dead _ , but Vanoss would think about that later.

Later, when Fischbach’s life wasn’t on the line and very much in Vanoss’ hands.

It looked like he had two choices, here, if he wanted to save Fischbach. 

Either he’d have to kill Mir, and likely all of his men, without any harm coming to Fischbach, as the second half of the team completed their task. This would leave Fischbach in the care of the Faceless—if he survived the gunfight, which, in his state, was unlikely.

The second option: Vanoss would have to find a way to stop Chilled and Bryce from killing Fischbach’s one hope at getting proper medical care outside of the Faceless. (Well, not  _ entirely _ outside, seeing as how a good number of the doctors and nurses and surgeons were Faceless-trained, but that was beside the point.)

Vanoss drew in a steadying breath. Ohm would’ve had some good advice at this point. He would’ve known which decision to go for.

He released his breath in a huff, and slipped on his mask. Ohm wasn’t here, and he wasn’t ever going to be coming back. Vanoss would just have to figure this mess out on his own—hopefully, without getting anyone killed.

Even those who should be.

He swung his rifle case over his shoulder and sprinted to the edge of the roof. Praying that his shoulder would hold up for the next two minutes, he grit his teeth and began to scale down the side of the building, using window ledges and drainpipes to aid him.

The moment his feet hit the ground he took off at a sprint. Mir, with his men and Fischbach in tow, were already inside. He could only hope Moo was smart, and hadn’t started any sort of a conflict.

With his pistol in hand and his knife loose in its sheath, Vanoss burst in through the doors. Moo looked up, surprise and confusion warring for first place on his face. One of the bear-like bodyguards, standing by the elevators as one of the dials counted up the floors, looked over.

There was a moment of silence as the Russian stared at Vanoss’ mask. Then a flurry of movement: the guy’s hand had darted to his gun, but Vanoss beat him to it. Now there was a fresh corpse guarding the elevators.

“Vanoss, what the f-”

“We need to stop Chilled and Bryce from killing the target.  _ Now. _ ”

“What? What are you talking about, you can’t just-”

“Get your damn mask on and follow behind me,” Vanoss snapped, then sprinted for the stairwell. The elevator dial had only just stopped moving; they’d reached the floor. He still had time.

Five flights of stairs later, with Moo catching up behind him, Vanoss slipped out into the hallway, gun held at the ready.

There was a hiss to his left; an arm darted out of an alcove and wrenched him in.

“What are you doing here?!” Bryce glared at Vanoss, pushing him back against the wall. “You abandoned your post? What happened to watching our backs?”

“I  _ am _ watching your backs-” Vanoss reached out and snatched Moo, drawing him into the already-cramped space.

“It’s because we failed, isn’t it,” Chilled asked quietly, eyes averted. “We… the target’s secretary entered before we were able to complete the task. She said she’d just received a call from some Russian guy, and we were rushed out.”

“We didn’t want to have to hide  _ two _ deaths,” Bryce explained.

“There’s a dead bird downstairs,” Moo said casually, “with one of Vanoss’ bullets in his brain.”

“What?” The two others stared at Vanoss. Bryce sounded incredulous, while Chilled was simply concerned.

Vanoss lifted his head off the wall and opened his eyes.

“One of Mir’s men. Mir is in that office right now,” Vanoss paused, eyeing the others as their mouths opened, ready to bombard him with more questions, “...with Mark Fischbach.”

Moo’s muttered, “So  _ that’s _ who I saw,” was covered up by Chilled’s shocked intake of breath.

“I thought-”

“Yeah, so did I,” Vanoss replied snippily, “so either that was the very heavy ghost of Fischbach, or it was the real—and very much  _ alive _ —him. And he’s hurt, bad. Wrapped nearly head to toe in bandages. He must have been trapped in the blaze after all; he just, somehow, managed to escape.”

“Probably suffered horrible burns.”

“Is that why he’s here?”

Vanoss nodded.

“Probably, although it doesn’t explain why the mafiya has him.”

The four of them were silent, save for their breathing.

Bryce cursed softly.

“If they hadn’t called ahead, if we hadn’t been forced to leave early-”

The rest of them nodded grimly.

“It wouldn’t have been good for Fischbach. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the target, or any of the Russians—and Mir can  _ burn in the bowels of hell _ —but Fischbach doesn’t deserve any more suffering.” Chilled shifted in the space, looking a little sheepish about his outburst.

“He’s… he’s a good guy,” Vanoss admitted, “I met him once. At Freddy’s. He doesn’t deserve  _ any _ of the suffering he’s gone through.”

There was another moment of silence, then Moo stepped out of the alcove.

“We don’t have anything to do here,” he said, glancing down the hall, “so I’d say we head back to HQ and give our reports. The target’s looking useful for a while longer, and I’m sure they’ll love to know about Mir’s new pet.”

Vanoss’ grimace was hidden behind his mask. He followed Moo’s suit and covered the hall, backing up as the others led the way to the staircase.

He wasn’t sure he’d made the right decision. For all he knew, he’d just signed off on a life of misery and pain for Fischbach, at the hands of none other than Mir.

But Mark was  _ alive _ . If he was alive, that meant he could heal; it meant he could be  _ saved _ .

Vanoss couldn’t do anything now. But when the time came, he’d make sure he would fight for Mark’s safety.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! i hope you all enjoyed c:


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